


red bloom

by priorviolets



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Byleth helps Dorothea stop being performative in bed after a string of bad partners, Established Relationship, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/priorviolets/pseuds/priorviolets
Summary: It’s never on purpose that the backdrop of Dorothea’s mind is a red velvet curtain parting for an audience, no matter where she is. Even now, on her back in the soft warmth of another’s bed, Byleth’s hands pinning her thighs down, there’s still that drumroll—like she’s being introduced, glittering and gracious, onto a stage.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 7
Kudos: 260





	red bloom

It’s never on purpose that the backdrop of Dorothea’s mind is a red velvet curtain parting for an audience, no matter where she is. Even now, on her back in the soft warmth of another’s bed, Byleth’s hands pinning her thighs down, there’s still that drumroll—like she’s being introduced, glittering and gracious, onto a stage. 

Byleth looks like a beast in this low light. Muted as she is any other time, everything about her in these moments is fierce and bright, like she’s fit to strike you down and feast on what’s left. Her eyes are tilted up to watch Dorothea’s every reaction while her tongue works softly at her; Dorothea isn’t looking at her, _can’t_ , but she can tell by the heat prickling under her chin that she’s being observed. 

And so she arches. And so she tilts and gasps and praises. She lists the names of goddesses, as if they are here in the room watching. She remembers a man, some aspiring knight with no light in his eyes, had liked when she threaded her fingers through his hair and held his face tight between her thighs, even if it hadn’t done much of anything for her at the time. The press of his tongue had been too rough, it couldn’t even _move_ —but still she had shouted at the end and called his name, whatever it was. She slept alone that night. 

The heat of Byleth’s mouth leaves her. 

Dorothea mewls and carefully leans up on an elbow. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” she says, full of sugar; and there it is again, as it is with everyone, that faraway sound of her own voice pretending to be someone else. 

Byleth just looks at her, her lips still wet from that place that has always wanted her just like this: on her knees at the bedside, her hair clipped back from her moon face, her hands everywhere.

 _It’s not you,_ Dorothea wants to tell her, _it’s not your fault I’m always singing in my head._ But instead, her mind rehearses: if she tips her head like _this_ , and keeps her eyelashes fanned low like _this_ , maybe Byleth will stay. 

Byleth drags her hand between Dorothea’s legs, and it’s that earnest lack of pretense that Dorothea _really_ likes—but she’s supposed to like being taken, being eaten alive, and so she pushes the little shudder to the brink and throws her head back with a whimper. (In another plane in time, Byleth does the same thing, and Dorothea’s eyes are closed, her mouth reverent and silent as it parts. That’s what she wants out of her body. But that can’t be what someone _else_ could want from it.)

When Byleth doesn’t move, just staring down at her with hawkish eyes, Dorothea lets her gaze drop. “Are we stopping?” 

“Do you want to?” 

“No,” Dorothea says at once, and then, “Please.” But that was too candid, and so she leans up to press a teasing kiss to the corner of Byleth’s unsmiling mouth. “Come on, honey, don’t keep me waiting—”

“Stop performing,” Byleth murmurs, her breath hot against Dorothea’s mouth. 

Dorothea keeps her eyes on Byleth’s bare lap, studies the long scar spanning her thigh and ending just above her navel. “I don’t know why I do it,” she whispers. 

“What do you want?” 

Dorothea’s fingers curl against Byleth’s leg. “I want to stop thinking. If I could just...feel you without worrying about how I…” Stupid words; but they’re candid ones, and Byleth is listening. “Ugh, how I _look_ or _sound..._ or if you’re bored and waiting for me to finish, or...” She swipes a hand through her hair, huffs out a laugh she doesn’t mean. “Oh, it’s all so silly. Look at me, rambling with no clothes on.” 

She expects Byleth to smile, but she doesn’t. She just stares at her, all aglow and poised to lunge, before leaning forward and easing her down onto her back. Her scent is familiar by now, strange flowers and silver and a curl of smoke. Dorothea lets herself breathe it in, and her stomach goes warm and tight when Byleth’s lips touch the side of her throat. “Tell me what you like,” she murmurs against her pulse, “and I’ll do it.” 

So simple. Dorothea’s heartbeat hammers in her throat; her thighs spread a touch wider. “Okay...I can do that for you.” 

“Not for me.” Byleth sinks down the shivering arc of Dorothea’s body, kissing her sternum, the full mound of her stomach, the swell of a hip. “For you.” 

Dorothea breathes out a laugh and lets Byleth shift her legs up and back. Strange that she should blush now, seeing as Byleth had already been firing away shortly before this interlude—but there’s something about the way she’s looking at her now, how Byleth’s eyes burn that white fire that Dorothea has been immolating inside of for years.

“When you just barely touch it,” Dorothea instructs, “with the tip of your tongue.” 

Byleth does just that, rolling her tongue in a light circle along her clit. Dorothea’s breath catches, and she lets herself relax, her head lolling to the side so she can watch. The demure pink of Byleth’s tongue makes her tremble, shining and gentle as it laps at her. 

“Yes,” she whispers, dizzily. “Like that.” 

Byleth hums and does it again, kissing at her clit with wet lips before rolling her tongue in its sweet circle. Dorothea thinks of praising her, saying anything to keep it going, but she doesn’t need to: Byleth is already peering up at her with that alien brightness lurking behind her eyes, showing no signs of stopping. 

It’s nice for the words to fall apart, to only relish in the heat of Byleth’s palms as they slip upstream to grab at her breasts—even nicer for the only sound she makes to be an attempt at Byleth’s name before it chokes off when her nipples are rolled between warm fingertips and held tight. All the while her tongue works at her with an aching softness that almost makes Dorothea feel as though she doesn’t have a body at all; nothing but a tight knot of nerves begging to be worked open and undone until she’s finally at rest. 

Something animal starts building in her as Byleth’s lips close over her clit again and again. The sounds that come from her heaving chest are ugly ones, graceless and without any thought behind them. It’s a gift, she thinks dazedly as she ruts and shudders against Byleth’s tongue, to not care what the next lines are, and let them shape themselves into ten different ways of saying _please don’t stop._

She only manages a hoarse attempt at Byleth’s name before her body seizes up, then suspends on a hot crest that seems impossibly high, so high she’ll never come down from it. Byleth grips her thighs open as they tighten, humming as Dorothea comes into her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Byleth’s hand working furiously at herself before she releases on a groan, the sound of it deep and muffled against Dorothea’s cunt. 

When she finally comes back down, Dorothea’s chest is tight like she might cry. She mewls Byleth’s name like a hymn to the ceiling, and there she is, crawling back up her body to lie atop her. Dorothea thinks of shields, barriers from the bad things outside these walls; the image is conjured all too easily when feeling the weight of Byleth’s sturdy body and all the scars it carries. 

“Thank you,” Dorothea whispers into the sweaty mess of the other’s hair. “I felt...real.” 

Byleth lifts her head to peer down at her. She says nothing, just smiles—and the glint in her eyes is what Dorothea loves most, that part of her that murmurs _follow me, and I’ll take you where you need._


End file.
